


Our Winter

by captainofthegreenpeas



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding, F/M, Heavenscoin, Meaningful Touches, Snow, Strategizing, Winter, wrapping up warm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/captainofthegreenpeas
Summary: District Thirteen is outside enjoying the snow. Meaningful human connection ensues.





	Our Winter

The steps had been swept clear of snow, but Alma gripped the handrail even so. She was not young anymore; and though she had been gifted with a robust constitution ( _some would say cursed_ , she thought, remembering all those she had outlived even when she hadn’t wanted to) falls were still to be avoided. The hospital was on high alert, scalpels sharpened and sheets boiled, but the hallways were kept clear, poised, awaiting disaster.

 

Like the tuning of an orchestra, the hubbub of the district rose as she climbed out into the open, noises jostling around each other for space in her ears.

 

She paused at the stop of the staircase to take in the full landscape, the stretch of snow from horizon to horizon, the little grey lines, black against the stark white, of Thirteen’s people and guests, some enjoying the weather more than others.

 

It was one of the compulsory excursions of the season, to relieve the tension that comes from cold lightbulbs and bare rooms, slow corridors and empty colours. Air and space, in abundant quantities, waiting to be filled with noise and movement. The children took full advantage of it, ecstatically flitting across every yard, with all the passion of the first gulp of air after suffocation.  

 

One girl dashed past her, and the flash of her flaxen plait snatched Alma’s breath only for a moment. _That wasn’t Nell_ , she reminded herself. _Nell is dead; and I am alone._ The girl picked up the cap which she had attempted to throw to her playmate, shook the snow off it and replaced it on her head, before vanishing in another crowd of children. _Nell vanished too, but in the crowd of the dying_.

 

Alma nodded to Boggs as she passed. She couldn’t see much of his face, underneath his scarf and hat and hood, but she knew it well enough to know it would be as impassive as ever. Her own nod was almost indistinguishable underneath her own large hood and thick hat and long scarf, but she knew he had seen it.

 

She walked at a pace that would have been called strolling on bare ground that did not slope, past huddles of chattering citizens and introspective wanderers, around the edges of the scattered gathering.

 

A ball rolled past her, tunnelling through the snow. She leaned over to pick it up, but a pair of larger gloves scooped it out first. The gloves were on the hands attached to Plutarch Heavensbee. Alma was surprised to see his face and head bare, so the smile he gave her as he handed the ball over was written wide and clear.

 

Alma gave him a quizzical look, using her exposed eyes and brows, as if to say “you think this is mine?” Wordlessly, she handed it back to its seeker. The boy doffed his cap at her and left, ignoring Plutarch completely. Fair enough. Gamemakers are not known for their childminding skills.

 

“Is it fashionable in the Capitol to risk losing your ears to frostbite?”

 

“Not that I can remember. Though one-sided earmuffs were briefly a la mode.”

 

She scoffed. “Ludicrous idea.”

 

“As I said: briefly.”

 

“Here we actually think clothes should function as clothes.”

 

She looked at him. His hair was crested with snowflakes and his cheeks and ears were dusted pink, but he seemed at ease with, if not oblivious to, the cold.

 

The president had never met the gamemaker before he had landed on her doorstep. Their alliance had been negotiated by envoy, so she had never seen his face.

 

In idle moments (of which there were few) her imagination had drawn his portrait, colourfully. She had seen pictures of Capitol folk in history books. Her imagination took those images and exaggerated them until they formed the caricature of a grotesque: a malignant creature with fruit-coloured skin, topiary hair and, for all she knew, fangs.

 

When she finally saw his face, she was almost disappointed. Even his clothing was not exactly fantastical: formalwear, she guessed, but plainer and more modest than she would have expected. The colours were rich and deep-dyed, yet sombre. Once he had donned the greys of Thirteen, he could almost pass for a District citizen, albeit a well-fed, well-read one. Rather than splayed or stained across his appearance, his origins showed through in hints. There were fine whiskery lines on his face, but no mark of wind or sun. His hands looked soft, unscarred, unstained.  Judging by his speech, he had a full set of teeth, though she hadn’t exactly checked. Though he was surely only a few years her junior, at most, he had better eyesight and hearing than she had ever had. To someone as observant as she was, these things pointed to the truth.

 

And yet, for all her observance, his appearance was no easier to explain than his loyalties. His hair was equal parts brown, blond and white, yet no part seemed to be dyed that colour. The first time she looked at him, his eyes were definitely blue. But under harsh lighting, they were grey, in the dark, almost purple. His face was expressive, but those eyes remained clinical and clear, like a pair of telescopes set in his head. His tone was light, his words serious. He disagreed with her frequently, yet managed to pose his opposition in such a way that his refutations flattered her more than her advisers who agreed with her. He was not a tall man, most of the soldiers of Thirteen overtopped him, but to call him short would be pushing it. He was not slim, but he was compact. Plumpness gave large bones and rounded shoulders a certain elegance they would not otherwise have. With that kind of appearance, Alma Coin just hoped she’d never lose him in a crowd and need to describe him to a stranger.

 

He did not seem to have a cruel bone in his body, she reflected, yet there didn’t appear to be much of a conscience in there either. If there was, he had yet to give it voice.  

 

“You were issued with a hat and scarf. I trusted that it was clear that you were intended to wear them?”

 

“Oh, yes. But the cold isn’t so bad. I’ve known colder winters than this. When I was no taller than that stump over there, the Capitol was showered with snow. My mother wrapped me in so many layers I looked like a walking laundry basket.”

 

Alma smiled in spite of herself, behind her scarf. “When I was that age, the blankets at night in winter certainly felt like they  _weighed_ the same as the laundry basket.”

 

“Parents do make a fuss about it, don’t they?”

 

Alma’s face fell. “They do.” She thought about the Capitol in winter now.  _Let them freeze. Let them starve._ A winter invasion would be hard on the troops, but a winter siege would be harder still on the defenders.

 

Plutarch was watching her carefully. Even with her face mostly covered, he seemed to spot her train of thoughts.

 

“You’ll have an easier time taking the Capitol when the weather starts to clear,” he advised her. “The city won’t yield to blizzards alone. Try to invade in winter and they’ll just don their furs and watch you struggle over a cup of tea. The Capitol is ready for extreme temperatures, hot or cold. I’m not being a buzzkill, I’m speaking from experience. The buildings have been insulated since well before the Dark Days. President Snow will shut up the most cavernous halls until spring to conserve heating. Draughts will be public enemy number one.” He chuckled at his own joke.

 

Alma pressed her lips into a thin line. “Then I will be patient.”

 

“Patience is not the most exciting of qualities, I grant you,” Plutarch remarked wryly, “but a surprising number of wars have been won with it. Your patience exceeds Snow’s as a well does a desert. That matters.”

 

“Wait it out?”

 

“Wait it out. He’s a trainwreck. He’ll collapse under the weight of his own mental state and then he’ll practically _give_ you the war.”

 

“When?”

 

“I don’t know.” He admitted. “He’s no longer as predictable as he used to be.”

 

“So what do we do while we wait? Build a snowman? Play Scrabble?”

 

“Of course not. We both know what we do. We consolidate our gains in the Districts and make plans for the future.” Plutarch’s lips twitched. “Although I wouldn’t say no to a round or two of Operation.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“I’m game if you’re game.”

 

She rolled her eyes, though deep deep down it _did_ sound kind of fun…

 

“Game or no game, you’ll turn into a snowman yourself if you’re not careful,” she scolded him. Instinctively, in a move which surprised her while at the same time making an intuitive sort of sense, she untied her scarf and wrapped it, warmed faintly from her skin, around his neck, tucking it carefully over his ears. She had never touched him before; and even with gloves she became suddenly very aware of his proximity, of where her fingers brushed his skin.

 

He bent to press a warm kiss to her cold cheek. She accepted it without comment.

 

“I expect you to return it to me tonight.”

 

“Of course, madam president.” Plutarch tipped his fingers to his head, in salute. Haymitch was trudging over to talk to them, wonder of wonders. “And you can pick the game.”


End file.
